Dearly beloved, we are here to bid farewell to our good friend.

Brian’s tiny sweaty balls.

To those that knew him best, knew him as a tiny man with even tinier sweaty balls. Those that knew him least generally assumed so.

His balls were Brian’s best fiends, and yet his greatest enemy. Advice from his father could not quell their sweaty spirit. Nor could the extra strength powder the doctor gave him.

Needless to say, we have much to be thankful for as we have grown up in the same era as a tiny, but giant, pair of balls. They were on a constant quest of vengeance against the forces of good hygiene. Without fear or reluctance, they siphoned their most bravest emotions into their daily work, fueled not by passion but of pure rage.

And so Brian’s tiny sweaty balls set about conquering the world. They may have been forcibly removed by an accidental gunshot wound borne of a fight over whether non-plastic straws were either a great choice in life or a grave injustice, worthy of a duel one would make as a 19th century drunkard – which you promptly and immediately lose. That part isn’t important.

The important thing is we will never have to hear about Brian’s tiny sweaty balls. They have departed this mortal plane and now rest in tiny ball heaven. May their tiny balls find tiny pieces of sweaty peace.

Amen.

Sincerely,

Brian’s big ass taint